Sherlock And The Train
by ViolentBones
Summary: Doctor John Watson didn't turn up for the flat viewing with Sherlock, they later meet on a train having faded into each other's pasts. -Short story it's only one scene long


His eyes bolted across the carriage, consuming every detail in their path: Plastic panels smeared with grease by tiny fingers, a glass bottle aimlessly rolling over urine stains and crisp packets, an abandoned book... Yet another rejection for Dan Brown, and here and there some floating faces, wrapped in shell suits and second hand shoes.

They eventually settled on a face in the corner and unashamedly fixed themselves to it. Him, he recognized him. The man looked up from his book and turned a mild shade of pink having noticed Sherlock's glare. His concentration was invaded by a regular thought... Why do they always do that? The man squirmed in his seat.

He searched through the pile of names in his head, and just as an itch of doubt swelled to the fear that he may have deleted it, it appeared- it was tucked under Sebastian Bridle and Sydney Ryans... Doctor John Watson- the man who failed to turn up. He was filled with the sudden urge to inquire as to this stranger's whereabouts that evening- Friday the 19th of September, 5 o clock. He could recount the meeting like clockwork.

Sherlock had been humoring Mike Stamford for a whole 4 minutes, he knew how he liked to talk in the morning and as Molly Hooper wasn't around to absorb the man's attempt at conversation Sherlock thought it best he responded politely so as not to offend yet another acquaintance. His interest pricked when Stamford asked about his "living situation" and this prompted an inquisition and a challenge for Mike Stamford "who would want to share a flat with me?"

Sherlock began to wish he'd never encouraged this idle chit chat and so was relieved when the dumpling of a man left for lunch. He'd just established that the drug he had found was Methylphenidate, more commonly known as Ritalin and was beginning to get comfortable in front of the microscope when Stamford returned followed by a smaller, more uncomfortable man... with a limp. Psychosomatic: almost definitely. An army doctor: almost certainly. Invalided home and living alone: undeniably... He could see where this was going.

He'd impressed rather than annoyed Doctor John Watson with his deductions, which was apparently a good start. The man seemed to like him, this presented a rare opportunity for Sherlock, one that he seized. The meeting was arranged, or rather informed as Sherlock rushed out of the door, and was set to take place at 5 that afternoon.

He viewed the flat on his own after 20 minutes of waiting out of courtesy to Mrs Hudson who'd missed Cash In The Attic for him, all though he knew he couldn't afford it for much longer with out a flat mate. Disappointment filled his gut, an almost new feeling to the emotionless Sherlock Holmes. After that he lost track of time, watching Baker Street below for new arrivals whilst torturing a tune akin to Mozart from his violin. It was, needless to say, a long night.

Sherlock's distant eyes regained their focus, and his mind returned to the grotty train carriage, he forced a smile in Doctor Watson's direction and uncoiled from the seat making his way along the shaky floor to sit opposite him. He assumed a normal character and apologized to the fidgeting mass of awkwardness for his burning glare, he attributed this to the fact he'd recognized him from somewhere and was met by a distressed whisper

"Sherlock Holmes"

He responded in an obligatory manner

"Doctor John Watson?"

The man nodded, and shifted in his seat, oozing unease

"I'm sorry... The flat... It was..."

Sherlock finished his sentence

"An unsuitable arrangement, I understand"

The man nodded again but his answer was betrayed by his own face. Sherlock puzzled and intrigued watched the man fight with his own thoughts, before either of them had come to a decision on the conversation and how to continue it, the train breathed a final moan and waddled into the station, John shot up from his seat tearing through the tension glad to be free of explanations he gave a smiling farewell and apologetically waved as he departed the train, leaving Sherlock to toss the conversation back and forth through his head... He needed a cigarette.


End file.
